


Midwinter

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere north of Duluth, they run out of daylight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midwinter

Somewhere north of Duluth, they run out of daylight. There’s nothing on the road besides trees and more trees and Sam’s thinking that they’re going to have to sleep in the car when Dean finds them an alternative. It’s not much but Sam will take it because it’s below freezing outside already and the snow’s falling steadily, promising to bury them alive if they don’t find somewhere warm for the night. It’s not that Sam minds sleeping in the car—it’s more that his back minds the seat belt that jabs him just below the fifth vertebrae when he lies down and his whole body minds that there’s not enough blankets in the trunk to go around.

The house has been abandoned for what looks like years, lost to the forest on this forgotten back road when the main highway moved to straighten out its curves. The trees have steadily crept forward, invading the yard and staging an all out assault on the house that had once been cut out of their territory. One tree has started growing into the east side, its roots curling up through the boards, and the house is rotting from the bottom up, becoming part of the forest floor but it’s going to have to do because there’s not exactly a Motel 6 waiting just around the corner. If nothing else, the old house will give Sam and Dean space to share the blankets.

Kneeling on the small cement platform in from of the front door, Dean picks the lock with an annoyed sigh. “Why bother locking it? Afraid someone’s going to steal your fucking mice?” His gloves are by his knees, resting on the snow and he moves his fingers quickly in the cold, warming them up with his breath when they get to be too frozen. “Whole house is so fucking rotted, it’ll probably fall down on our ears. Be more likely to just set the place on fire and I can do that from the _outside_ …”

Sam keeps himself warm by shifting from foot to foot while he holds the flashlight still for Dean. He can see his breath, a white cloud in front of his face. “Maybe it wasn’t rotted when they locked it.” Snow swirls around his legs, driven by the wind that he’s trying to break for Dean.

Dean grunts and swears as he yanks his hand away. “Fucking bitch.” He sucks a finger into his mouth and pulls it out with a wet pop. “Fucking thing’s so damn rusted that…” When Dean goes back to the lock, it’s not with his fingers and the picks, it’s with his shoulder and a small amount of force. The door gives easily, the rust flaking away under the pressure and Dean stands up, brushing the snow off his knees. “We’ll brace it,” he tells Sam when he catches Sam’s curious glance. It was Dean that had insisted on trying the lock, raising his eyebrows and asking Sam if Sam really wanted to sleep in a house that didn’t have a front door that closed. Sam hadn’t seen how it mattered: there were at least three busted-out windows and the tree to the east that wasn’t going to do them any favors.

Stepping inside is like crossing into another world. The howl of the wind lessens as they close the door, but it’s still there, sounding like it’s coming from the other side of a tunnel. Some of it makes it inside the house, whistling through the cracks and Sam hunches his jacket around his ears. It’s warmer inside but not by much. There’s not much of value left, just some rough-hewn furniture—a table with a broken leg and two chairs shoved in the corner—and a couple dark piles of rubbage waiting for them to go through. Sam peers through the dark, shining his flashlight into corners and seeing the few rooms that sprout off the main one, hidden in the shadows. 

Dean pats his arm as he goes by. “I’ll get you warm, Sammy,” he says and wanders off to the left. Sam wants to tell Dean that he’s not five anymore and he can help but some part of him warms at the concern. In a way, Sam will always be five and Dean will always be trying to take care of him.

Dean curses about the dust and the spider webs as he digs through the closest pile, looking for anything usable, and Sam does a walk around the room. The room to the northwest is a loss, having collapsed years ago under its own weight. There’s a mound of snow where the fallen shingles have formed a hole and Sam takes a step back to look at the door frame. The room’s going to have to be sealed off if he and Dean are going to make it through the night.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean calls and Sam leans back to look at him. Dean’s squatting beside the pile, two threadbare blankets by his boots. “You find a fireplace anywhere?”

Sam swings his light around the room and shakes his head. “No, but there might be one in the other rooms.” Sam’s counting at least two more to look into, though there’s no guarantee that they won’t be just like the northwest one.

“’Cause I got a stack of wood here. Cut like it’s made for one.” Dean holds a log over his head and drops it to the floor. “Maybe we won’t freeze tonight.”

Not freezing sounds like an excellent idea, Sam thinks. It’s right up there with burying himself under every blanket they’ve got and forcing Dean to join him so he can curl up around Dean’s heat—but then, that goes back to the not freezing thing. Dinner’s going to be a bag of Doritos and a couple of truck stop sandwiches but, at the moment, it might as well be steak and a baked potato with the works and a side salad. Sam’s going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Sam checks out the other two rooms, the first turning out to be the remains of a bathroom (also collapsed) and the other something a bit more promising. He cautiously steps inside what looks to be a kitchen. It’s sturdier than the rest of the house, the cool draft that pervades the other rooms almost non-existent save from where Sam’s standing at the entrance and Sam sweeps the flashlight around the outer edges before checking the rafters. He nods to himself. As far as condemned buildings go, he and Dean have slept in worse. Best of all, in the corner, there’s a small fireplace sprawling out from the wall with a chimney that heads toward the ceiling. “Hey, Dean!” Sam says because he’s set to make camp.

The chimney’s dirty but a few pokes with a long stick, a couple of curses on both their parts, and a lack of caring about burning the debris that falls takes care of that, at least as far as they’re concerned. In less than an hour, they have a fire going, courtesy of the stack of wood that Dean found in the other room, and Sam’s gratefully huddled around it, with two blankets around his shoulders. The lone sleeping bag is spread out underneath him, protecting him from the chill of the floor.

“Good enough,” Dean grunts and steps away. He’s managed to use the two blankets he found earlier to cover the entry way to the rest of the house. One’s thicker and a rich green that covered most of the open space while the other is red with a few holes and together, they look downright festive. “Home sweet home.”

Sam gives a small smile and looks back into the fire, watching the flames dancing together. He’s definitely been in worse places. “Scoot over,” Dean says and slams himself down before Sam’s gone more than a few inches. There’s a quick draft and then Dean’s under the blankets with him, staring at the fire as well. They fit together well, years of practice behind how Dean curves his body around Sam’s and vice versa. Sam doesn’t think about how Dean’s leg presses up against his, their thighs overlapping where Dean’s tilting downward, because Dean’s a part of him. It’s been awhile since they’ve sat so closely, since they’ve slotted into place like interconnecting parts, and Dean must be colder than he’s been letting on.

Either that or he’s accepted the reality that bluster only gets a guy so far when he’s shouting at the wind. Sam glances at Dean’s face, watching the firelight lick his skin, and then slides his attention back to the burning logs. It’s almost…peaceful.

Plastic crinkles as Dean mauls the bag of Doritos, ripping open the top and digging inside. He crunches down on four chips at once and shakes the bag at Sam. Sam licks off the nacho cheese off first before eating, taking his time, and Dean reaches in three times for handfuls before Sam’s reaching for his second. They repeat the cycle a couple times over before Dean grunts and shoves the bag into Sam’s lap, cutting himself off and letting Sam catch up. Sam’s lips curve upward and he sets the bag between them just in case Dean changes his mind. 

He’s years past needing Dean to ensure he gets enough to eat—and maybe he wants to return the favor. 

Sam’s licking the florescent orange off his fingers when a wrapped sandwich hits his leg. He pulls off the plastic as Dean bites into his own. “Hit Bear River tomorrow,” Dean says, swallowing a mouth full of ham and swiss. “Shouldn’t take more than a day.”

Sam nods because Bear River sounds like the usual salt and burn and it’s just a pit stop on their way to the real mystery at Waskish, with the disappearing cows and the old man found floating upside down. After that, they’re heading to Montana or maybe they’ll swing down to Nebraska and see if they can get a little bit warmer. If nothing else, there’s always North Dakota, though Sam thinks the reports are a hoax. They sound too much like Bigfoot and not enough like something with substance behind it—all rumor and widely differing facts. At any rate, they’ve got plenty.

“You gonna eat that or just stare at it?” Dean asks, crunching on lettuce and letting his tongue flick out to catch a drop of mayo at the corner of his mouth. Sam blinks and realizes he’s been frozen, his sandwich a few inches from his face. “’Cause I don’t think food works that way, Sammy.”

“I’m going to eat it.” Sam bites off a chunk and chews and Dean raises an eyebrow as he swallows.

“Looked like you were about ready to read it some poetry,” Dean drawls and Sam rolls his eyes. 

The turkey and cheddar isn’t a porterhouse, not even close with the bread a little stale and the cheese melting into the meat, but Sam takes his time with it because besides the bag of Doritos and the remaining part of Dean’s sandwich, it’s the only thing edible they’ve got left. When it's gone, he rolls the plastic wrap into a ball and tosses it at the fire. It misses by a mile.

“And that’s why you played soccer,” Dean says with a snort. Sam rolls his eyes and gives Dean a shove, threatening him with the surrounding cold. Dean doesn’t take it to heart. He knows that Sam’s threat is emptier than the wind outside because there’s not a chance that Sam’s going to pass on Dean’s body heat. Blankets only do so much.

Dean tosses his own trash towards the fire, the cellophane ball sailing through the air. It bounces off one of the logs and rolls to the center, dead on target. Dean smirks smugly but Sam lets him have the moment. 

They sit in silence, watching the fire flicker and dance, and for the first time in a long time, Sam doesn’t think about what’s waiting down the road. He doesn’t think about the job or destinies or past regrets. He exists only in the moment, with nothing but the fire, Dean, and the howl of the wind outside.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean’s voice is whisper-quiet and Sam glances over at him. Dean’s eyes are a pine forest green, glinting in the firelight. “Happy New Year.” 

A smile pulls at Sam’s lips. “Happy New Year, Dean,” he says and kisses Dean, just because he can.


End file.
